


My Songs are of the Revolution

by penthea



Category: Glee
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Eating Disorders, F/F, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:15:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penthea/pseuds/penthea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kid shows up to class in a pink skirt - either one of the oblivious ones, or more likely she’s from Iowa and thinks she’s special, that that will get her noticed, and that it’s somehow going to get her something good.</p><p>Other than that, she’s not bad - small, good legs, decent lines, 19-year-old body that Cassandra can’t help but linger on with a mix of envy and desire that makes her wish she had a drink, even if it’s the first class of the day. In a flash of honesty, quickly squashed by disgust, she realizes she wishes she had all the cookies in the world, and that the liquor is just a weak substitute.</p><p>“Higher!” she demands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Songs are of the Revolution

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler warning for 4.01.
> 
> Thanks to nubianamy for the help when I got stuck, and the encouragement to post this even if it will most likely be irrelevant tomorrow.

The kid shows up to class in a pink skirt - either one of the oblivious ones, or more likely she’s from Iowa and thinks she’s special, that that will get her noticed, and that it’s somehow going to get her something good.

Other than that, she’s not bad - small, good legs, decent lines, 19-year-old body that Cassandra can’t help but linger on with a mix of envy and desire that makes her wish she had a drink, even if it’s the first class of the day. In a flash of honesty, quickly squashed by disgust, she realizes she wishes she had all the cookies in the world, and that the liquor is just a weak substitute.

“Higher!” she demands.

There are no real surprises - after teaching for a few years she’s more or less seen it all and there are only variations on themes, all of which disgust her for different reasons.

“Muffin top” falls out of her mouth without thinking - she doesn’t even really mean anything by it, she just thought that girl looked like she might be trouble later and wanted to show her who was in charge.

Anyway. Ohio rolls her eyes at her, and Cassandra knows - just knows - that this one has never stuck her fingers down her throat with tears dripping out her nose and denied the pain of it because every single bit of it is her own fault and only exists because she’s too weak. The ones who have, she can see it in their eyes and it softens her to them a little bit, she can be proud of them, because they may be destined for success but at least they’re going to pay for it in failure. Ohio looks like she thinks the world might be hard but fair, and Cassandra fucking hates her already.

When she falls, Cassandra can’t really explain to herself why she doesn’t just step over her and move on to something better -- instead she actually gets down there with her and tells herself it’s for the pleasure of teaching the kid from Ohio -- whose instinct is to assume that a teacher might help her up -- learn something about New York City. “You suck,” she says, pretending it’s a test but aware as she says it that it’s a cop-out.

She can see herself playing the role of Strict Teacher, in the movie the girl is no doubt composing in her head right now -- she sticks her chin out and squares her shoulders, the universal gesture of just wait, I’ll be the one you couldn’t break -- and Cassandra almost for a second wishes it could be true, but for one thing she knows how easily young girls are broken -- harder than boys, it’s true, but even these, the supposed best there are, crumple so quickly it sometimes makes her want to give up on people altogether -- but more importantly, she’s been the one they couldn’t break and she knows what a great goddamn lie it is.

 

***

“Why are you picking on me?”, she asks, like she’s actually hurt, like she expected something else or thinks the world needs a reason. Cassandra has called her David Schwimmer again and mocked her for being tired and homesick and it’s all really just very run of the mill, and the sooner Ohio (Schwimmer doesn’t really feel right, but it gets the point across) learns to deal, the better.

It’s not that she actually thinks this is motivating in any effective way, but its exasperating that this one won’t even pretend, like they all do. God, those pathetic kicked little puppy eyes. She was at least hoping for a kitten. Those are so much more fun.

“What’s your problem now,” she asks, poking to see if she can tease a bit of fight out of little miss pink chiffon.

“There’s just alcohol on your breath,” she says, and part of Cassandra is delighted, but the way every student’s head turns towards them makes her hesitate. Only for a second, though. She’s in control of this room. “It’s Listerine,” she replies, she thinks calmly enough, and order is restored.

She’s irritated, though, and damn it - she’s still in charge here, in a year they might outgrow her but for right now, she’s in charge, she’s got the power, and every little bit of Cassandra that knows better, that’s accepted years ago the absolute pathetic futility of I’ll show you -- just lies down and whimpers. Maybe it’s that alcohol.

Ohio is staring at her, eyes and...hell, all of her, wide open, and she can’t deny there’s a little thrill there that makes her extra pleased to know what she will get when she asks for music.

“I met a girl...” she begins, meeting that damned little girl’s stare and letting her know she knows she’s looking - let’s see how they deal with that in Ohio. She rips her skirt off and sings that line about floral shorts to a pretty dark-haired girl in a pink skirt who’s standing by the barre alone, frozen in place, maybe a little bit scared and maybe just stunned, and it’s almost too perfect.

***

Rachel doesn’t move. She barely breathes. It’s really just another confusing moment in the most confusing week of her life so far, so she doesn’t know why this is what finally gets to her - a teacher singing and dancing? Okay, so Cassandra July is better than any of the crazy teachers she’s seen do inappropriate routines -- Rachel is impressed. She wants to hate this woman, or she thinks she does, but right now...all she wants is to be better. To show Miss July just how good she can be.

There are girls and boys on all sides of her, and she’s touching them, pulling them and pushing them away, but most of the time her eyes return to Rachel, or maybe Rachel’s just imagining it, Miss July isn’t doing this for her, is she? Not really?

Rachel sinks together a tiny little bit, and then straightens -- posture, Miss July is looking at her, but god, she will never, ever be this good -- no, damn it, she will -- she has no idea anymore.

Miss July tosses her blonde hair, and Rachel is absurdly reminded of Quinn. She never knew what to do with Quinn, either.

“You’re not just on my list, Schwimmer,” Miss July announces, looking down at Rachel like she’s something very small, “you are my list.” It’s a threat, a compliment, whatever it is it’s undivided focused attention and it’s making it very hard to breathe.

She makes it out of her dance clothes and into Thibodeaux’s class, and once she’s there, the fear almost drowns out the chaos of thoughts in her head -- about blonde hair and dirty looks and Quinn Fabray’s legs and how maybe this new Rachel is a bit more than she’ll ever be ready for. 

She sings, and the applause when she finishes is both familiar and disorienting, but Old Rachel comes through and she beams at whoever happens to be in front of her.

 

***

There’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” Cassandra yells, downing the last sad swallow of vodka-mango smoothie. A head more familiar than it should appears, followed by an uncertain but eager voice. “Miss July?” Then the whole girl darts inside. Rachel from Ohio. Just as pretty and infuriating as Cassandra is deciding she probably always is.

“Yes.” She doesn’t really do welcoming. If they want it enough they won’t care.

The girl’s dark eyes dart from the blender to the window to a spot above Cassandra’s head, but she doesn’t leave.

“What’s the matter? If you’re here to apologize, don’t. Work harder.”

Rachel shakes her head. Whatever makes her think she’s special enough that Cassandra is going to listen to her dime a dozen girl from Ohio problems? Never mind that she might actually be right, because she hasn’t thrown her out yet, has she? Oh, go ahead, Cassie, the voice in her head taunts, have some fun. Don’t you always say the ones with a little spirit are the best to play with? So what if Rachel isn’t showing a lot of it right now. Just being here is a sign of more guts than usual. Muffin Top won’t even meet her eyes anymore. Okay, she thinks. Why not.

“Oh, you’re making me guess.” Cassandra walks to the other corner of the room. “Hmmm. You want to drop the class? I’d have expected more from you, Schwimmer, but no problem, I can always find someone else to make fun of. You can get the form at the office.”

She deliberately studies the girl’s body, without quite meeting her eyes. In street clothes -- still very nice, but wow, does she need a makeover. That is a short skirt, though, and very good legs. “Pregnant?” she asks, lingering on her midsection, which is tiny enough to make the insult ridiculous. “I suppose that could explain those turns.”

Rachel opens her mouth and closes it again.

***

When Miss July makes the pregnancy joke, it’s almost a relief because at least it puts that intense focus back into the safe, if awful, box of body shaming. As much as she hates it, Rachel can deal with that.

But then she stalks closer, into what is decidedly Rachel’s personal space when they’re not in a dance class, and Rachel can smell her perfume, and they’re off in that other space again, the one with no floor or roof or shape.

“Or...” she says, slowly, and Rachel knows before anything else comes out that this is going to cross at least a couple of lines. She has experience. When Miss July continues, “...no, don’t tell me you’re having confusing feelings about your teacher and you’ve come to confess,” Rachel is mostly surprised because it’s so accurate, and also clearer than anything she’s been able to put together until right now. She’s feeling a little cold and shaky, but she keeps standing there looking at Miss July because...she has no idea what else to do. This isn’t real. Maybe she’s finally cracked. She hadn’t planned to have her breakdown until she was 23, but then again she never expected this.

“Oh, sweetie. It’s completely normal to crush on an older girl you admire. Just a phase.” Cassandra barks out a laugh. “Just kidding. Sorry, you’re probably really, really gay.”

Rachel is as shocked as anyone when she can’t hold back a loud sob. Because, no. Just...no, she’s not and she can not deal with another thing and...no, that’s not what this is at all.

***

If she were a better person, Cassandra would give her a hug and tell her it’s not the end of the world, but let’s face it, she’s a mess and she’s replaced all of her carbs except for fruit with alcohol, so she’s mostly just pissed. Fucking Ohio. She’s not sure if she means the girl or the place more.

She walks over, drags the crumpled sobbing heap up and off her floor, and before she knows what she’s doing, she’s got her more or less propped up against the wall, in a way that if this was another equally sweet, innocent and curious young woman who wasn’t her student... all she’s saying is she tries to maintain some balance in the universe, and so what if the closest she gets to respecting karma is to resolve as many sexual identity crises as she causes, if she can at least do that, then she will.

She pushes a little harder. “Oh, stop crying,” she says. When that only gets her another, more choked sob, leans forward and kisses the damn girl, if only to shut her up.

***

The first thing Rachel’s addled brain can come up with is that this is almost like what happened to Kurt. The second is that it’s absolutely completely different because Karofsky definitely didn’t have breasts like that and if he did, she’s certain Kurt wouldn’t have wanted them pressed against him. The third is that, please forgive her but her bitch of a teacher is such a better kisser than Finn and oh god, she thought real sex just wasn’t as good but maybe it is after all.

That’s really quite a lot of thinking for a few seconds of making out, so it’s no wonder her brain mostly shuts down after that. She registers that Miss July - Cassandra - is surprisingly strong. Of course, she’s a dance teacher. There are hands on her hips, splayed on her chest, pushing her up against the wall, keeping her up. All she has to do is to give in, and she does, opening her mouth to soft lips and letting a muscled leg press between her own, letting her head fall back against the wall and just not thinking for a while.

She’s sure this is a terrible mistake, probably the worst she’s made in her life. That taste in her mouth is definitely not Listerine, though, and somehow that comforts her, knowing that if it all goes to hell she will have that ammunition. It doesn’t occur to her until later that the teacher is probably the one who will get in trouble for Rachel rubbing up against her leg.

“What do you think, Rachel?” and, oh, she does know her name, that’s almost enough to make her lose it right there. She whines -- actually whines and chases after her dance teacher’s mouth, what is she doing?

“Do you have what it takes? Will you be good for me?”

The voice is so close to her skin, breathing on her, and there’s a hand -- the heel of a hand, where there was a thigh before, and it’s harder, better... Rachel shudders, gasping out yes, I’ll show you, I’ll be the best -- she’s pretty sure her knees aren’t holding her up and she would be on the floor if Miss July hadn’t been helping.

Before she can form another coherent thought, she’s being briskly pulled to her feet. “I hope that was...clarifying,” Miss July says.

“Yes,” Rachel replies, like an idiot, because she feels, even now, maybe insanely more now, that she must answer her teacher respectfully. “Thank you.”

There’s a moment of that same stillness as when Rachel pointed out the smell of her breath, but then it passes. “Excellent. You’re dismissed,” Miss July says, pretty much exactly as she does in class, and Rachel nods, turns and walks towards the door, dazed. “And work on your turns, Schwimmer.”

Rachel closes the door behind her. The hallway is no more or less brightly fluorescent than it was ten minutes ago. She tries to pull her shoulders back and walk like Rachel Berry, but she thinks maybe she hates herself too much.

 

***

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Songs of Envy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/758529) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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